by Muir, T. F.
And with each sweep of the chain, Megs vented her anger.
‘Who killed her?’ he shouted back.
‘Not me . . .’ Another sweep.
‘Why did Dougie do it?’
‘She told him she was pregnant . . .’
Pregnant? The chain clipped his elbow, sending a jolt like an electric shock to his shoulder, reminding him to keep backing up.
‘I see that got your attention.’ She swung the chain at his face, and almost connected. ‘You bastard . . .’
But he could tell she was tiring, the scything taking its toll, her words punctuated by gasps. He noticed, too, that she was now swinging the chain with one hand, gathering it in with the other, like a climber easing her way up a length of rope to the summit of Gilchrist’s anchor. It would not be long until she reined him in.
He clung on to the anchor. Its weight fired the muscles in his arm and shoulder.
If he could swing it back and forward, somehow use it to—
His heel caught.
He landed on his back with a force that emptied his lungs and cracked his head on a rock. He struggled to stay conscious. For one confusing moment his body failed to work. Megs seemed to sense this as she widened her stance, readied to swing the chain up and over and down in a crushing death blow.
The anchor. It was his only hope.
He lifted it, tried to throw it, but on his back, with his weakened arm, its weight was too much. He gasped in disbelief as it slipped from his grip.
Megs’ eyes widened at the logic of something that was beyond Gilchrist’s thinking.
The sound of metal ringing by his ear had him turning his head.
The chain rattled and scurried over the rocky surface like a burned snake.
Megs was trying to unwrap the other end from her wrist, her mouth gaping in panic, her arm flapping. The chain seemed to shoot up from the ground, take hold of her arm and jerk her towards him. She belly-flopped by his side, threw an arm over him in the passing. But in the nude, he had nothing to offer.
He had time only to turn to his side, respond in like fashion. He managed to grab the hem of her skirt, felt the strain in his arm as her body fell over the edge, the shock of pain in his wrist as her deadweight transferred with a sharp snap through the broken bone.
He could not hold on.
He pushed himself to his knees in time to see her tumbling off the rock face, her body spinning like a toy, deep into the dark void. Moments later, the sound of her death-splash echoed up at him. He lay still for several seconds, then pushed back from the edge.
A violent tremor took hold of his body then, chattering his teeth, shaking his limbs. He could not tell if it was from the rush of fear, or from the cold night wind that seemed to rise up the rock face from the quarry pit below.
Or perhaps it was from the passing of Megs’ cold soul as it rose from the depths to embark on its final journey.
CHAPTER 33
Tosh was all spittled mouth and flushed face.
‘You fucking set it all up, Gilchrist. I know you.’
‘Give it up, Tosh.’
‘Ewart’s telling us you attacked him and his wife—’
‘Ex-wife—’
‘—Trussed them up and drove them to the quarry.’
‘Of course he would.’
‘Then you tied a chain around his wife’s wrists and kicked her over the edge.’
‘You’re not listening.’
‘Oh, I’m listening, all right. I’m listening to Ewart tell me what really happened.’
‘If he was telling the truth, why would I not have shoved him over the edge, too?’
‘Then you’d have no reason to come back to the office,’ he said, without missing a beat. He closed in on Gilchrist, his face growing impossibly redder. ‘And act all hurt and innocent.’
‘The postcards,’ Gilchrist said to him.
Tosh stumbled. ‘What postcards?’ he tried.
Gilchrist knew Tosh was bluffing, waiting to see how he would play it. Tosh could not know that Gilchrist knew of his call to the Sheriff’s Office from the Thai restaurant. ‘The postcards Kelly was supposed to have sent from St Andrews and Mexico,’ he said. ‘You need to talk to Bert.’
‘Bert? What the fuck’s Bert got to do with any of this?’
‘He’s having DNA lifted from the back of the stamps.’
‘Who told him to do that?’
‘Now you really are making me think you’re dumber than I—’
‘You don’t get it, do you? You’ve fucked up, Gilchrist. I have a warrant for your arrest.’
‘Well, here I am.’ He pulled himself forward, his face close enough that he could smell the man’s hatred. If he was not so exhausted, he might have tried some anger of his own. ‘If you had listened to me,’ he said, ‘instead of playing Rambo and running up a ton of man hours trying to settle some personal vendetta, Megs would not be anchored to the bottom of some water-filled quarry pit.’
‘Don’t try and slime your way out of this one so—’
‘If you hadn’t been so pig-headed,’ Gilchrist pressed on, ‘Megs would still be alive. Have you thought about that, Tosh? Have you thought about how your brainless stupidity caused a woman’s death?’
Tosh’s eyes flared with a flicker of madness. He pushed back, slapped his hands on the table with a smack that should have cracked the frame, then stomped from the interview room, leaving Gilchrist with CI Randall.
Gilchrist slumped back into his chair. His body demanded rest. His left wrist was swollen and bruised, and burning from the fire of broken bones. His right arm throbbed from shoulder to fingertips. His hair was matted with blood where he had split his skull from his lucky stumble by the quarry edge. Several more backward steps and it would have been his body the police divers were searching for, if they would ever have known where to look.
He tugged the blanket around his neck.
Randall pulled up his chair and faced him. ‘Can I get you anything, Andy? Tea? Coffee?’ He eyed Gilchrist’s wrist, raised his eyebrows. ‘A doctor?’
‘I’m all doctored out.’
Randall gave a soft chuckle in response, but it was short-lived. He leaned forward. ‘I’d like to ask a few questions of my own, Andy,’ he said, glancing at the recorder to make sure it was still on. ‘Tell me once again what happened.’
Gilchrist did, taking fifteen minutes to explain events leading to Megs being dragged over the quarry edge.
‘And then you phoned Bert?’
‘I did.’
‘You were naked. Where was your phone?’
‘I used Dougie’s. It was in his jacket.’
‘I see.’ Randall looked down at his notes. ‘And what did you tell Bert?’
‘That he should go to Megs’ house and retrieve two postcards. Megs kept a spare key under a flowerpot at the back door. It’s how Dougie used to get in.’ Gilchrist smiled at Randall’s puzzlement. ‘Although Dougie and Megs are divorced, they’ve been having an affair for over twenty years.’
‘And Dr Ewart gave this information willingly? About the key?’
‘He spoke to Bert of his own free will.’ Which was Gilchrist’s first lie. It had taken a foot pressed to Ewart’s broken shoulder to force him to agree to speak to Bert. Ewart’s squeals still rung in his ears. Well, the man had intended to kill him, after all.
‘That’s not what Dr Ewart is saying.’
‘Of course not.’
‘You didn’t coerce his cooperation by force.’
‘Is that a question?’
‘It is.’
‘When I told him what had happened to Megs, he collapsed. It was over for him, and he knew it.’ Which was his second lie. Ewart had cursed Megs to hell and back for having spoken out in Gilchrist’s presence. Then he had smiled up at Gilchrist, swore blind he would deny everything, until Gilchrist mentioned the postcards. The look that flashed across Ewart’s face told Gilchrist all he needed to know.
The postcards
were still intact, lying on the shelf, hidden by a cookbook.
‘I’m sure you realize, Andy, that without a warrant, any evidence obtained by Bert in an unofficial search of Megs’ house would be inadmissible in court.’
‘That’s true.’
Randall seemed to rise up in his chair. ‘Then why did you order Bert to do it?’
‘I didn’t. Bert’s next-door neighbour is Sheriff Tyler.’
‘So Bert had a warrant?’
‘Of course.’
Randall’s ice-blue eyes narrowed. For the first time that morning, resentment seemed to shimmer in them. But Gilchrist had sound reason for being unhelpful. Randall was senior to Tosh, and should have reined Tosh in. Not doing so broke whatever trust Gilchrist might have been prepared to extend to the man.
‘When did you next speak to Bert?’ Randall went on.
‘About an hour or so after I first spoke to him.’ Which was not exactly correct. By the time Gilchrist had limped naked into the nearest police station, to the shocked smiles of a young WPC, Bert had already called back and confirmed he had a warrant.
‘What did he tell you?’
‘That he located both postcards in Megs’ kitchen, next to the phone.’
‘Anyone with him?’
‘Sheriff Tyler.’
Randall frowned. ‘At that time of night?’
‘According to Bert, Sheriff Tyler was on his way out for a midnight fishing trip when he called. He told Bert he’d like to come along for the ride.’
Randall studied his notes, then said, ‘You drove yourself back.’
Gilchrist had stuffed Ewart into the boot of Megs’ car, unbound and ungagged, and set off across the countryside, following the tyre marks of Ewart’s earlier passing. When he reached the paved road he turned right, remembering being flung across the boot space as Ewart had slammed on the brakes and veered sharp left.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘How did you know where you were?’
‘I didn’t. I asked.’
‘With no clothes on?’
‘How else?’
It had felt odd being naked behind the wheel. The Vauxhall’s heater was shot, giving out little warmth even though the temperature gauge wavered on the hot side of normal.
‘And then you made your way here, with Dr Ewart locked in the boot, what, for how long? Two, two and a half hours?’
‘Yes.’
Randall closed his notebook and held Gilchrist’s gaze in a long hard look. ‘I have to tell you that this maverick approach of yours has been noted by senior staff members. You should have called into the office—’
‘And done what? Turn myself in?’
‘You were causing this Division to utilize unnecessary manpower. You should have at least kept us informed—’
‘And what would that have achieved?’
‘We would have listened to—’
‘You saw how Tosh listened. He wasn’t interested.’
Randall tried a smile, but he was fooling no one. ‘Tosh can be a bit wild at times.’
‘Tosh is on his way out of St Andrews.’
Randall stilled, as if Gilchrist’s words had struck a nerve. ‘Tosh is well connected,’ he said at length.
‘I know,’ said Gilchrist, and stood.
Randall pushed back and stood, too. Worry etched his brow. ‘We wouldn’t want you to leave the office,’ he said.
‘We?’
Randall’s calm demeanour seemed cracked at the edges. ‘Until we complete our search of Mrs Caulder’s home.’
‘And you want me to do what, exactly? Let myself be locked up until you decide I’m free to go? You have the postcards. You have Dougie. Why not let Tosh take him out the back and beat the truth out of him?’
‘I don’t think there’s any need to take that attitude.’
‘There’s every need.’
‘We don’t have any physical evidence linking Dr Ewart to the—’
‘Bert will lift DNA from the postcards’ stamps.’
‘I hope so,’ Randall purred, his voice back in control.
Without replying, Gilchrist pushed past.
In the hallway, he ordered a taxi, then took a seat in one of the interview rooms.
Bert would find Megs’ DNA on the back of the stamps. Christ, he would have to.
CHAPTER 34
They found Megs at the bottom of the quarry pit, her body chained to the anchor like a balloon in air. Not quite eight hundred metres deep, but deep enough to have kept Gilchrist’s body hidden for a long time, perhaps for ever.
Ewart was grilled for six straight hours, and for six straight hours, despite having identified Kelly earlier from Gilchrist’s photographs, denied all knowledge of her, swore blind he never had sex with her, that Megs was his one true love. He troubled his inquisitors by insisting that Gilchrist had broken into Megs’ home and interrupted an embarrassing moment, then trussed them together like pigs and driven them for two hours in the back of Megs’ car to the quarry.
‘The back seat, not the boot?’ Ewart had been asked.
‘Back seat. Have your boys take samples from there. Then we’ll see who’s telling the truth.’
When challenged by Greaves, Gilchrist suggested Ewart and Megs used the back seat for reliving their student years, which had him worried that he had underestimated Ewart.
But he still had a few questions of his own to ask.
‘Megs said you didn’t have to kill Kelly,’ he had said to Ewart.
‘Your word against mine.’
‘So why did you do it?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Kelly was pregnant,’ Gilchrist said.
Ewart glared at him, as if seeing him for the first time.
‘Did she tell you the child was yours? Were you frightened your parents would disown you, or that you’d be thrown out of university? That your dreams of becoming a doctor would be lost? With a wife and child to support, how would you—’
‘Shut up.’
Gilchrist leaned closer, tried to engage Ewart’s guilt-laden eyes. He wanted to tell him that Kelly could never have been pregnant. She had been on the pill. Jack had let that slip one night. With her promiscuous lifestyle, she had taken no chances. Telling Ewart that she was pregnant had been her way of ending whatever relationship Ewart thought they had. He saw that now. Kelly must have known Ewart would run a mile. But had he been scared enough to kill her? Gilchrist thought not.
‘And Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ he pressed on. ‘Once Megs found out, she threatened to do what, exactly?’
Ewart lifted his eyes, as if pleased to be discussing something he knew about. ‘Megs is not right in the head,’ he said. ‘But other than my wife, she’s the only woman I’ve ever loved.’
‘So you went along with her plan to kill Kelly. The postcard was sent. By the time it arrived in the States, Kelly was already dead and buried.’ Gilchrist leaned closer. ‘Did you not try to talk her out of it?’
Ewart closed his eyes, shook his head.
Gilchrist decided to try another tack. ‘I see you’re right-handed.’
Ewart’s eyes sprang open, as if in surprise at the comment.
‘Kelly’s fatal injury was on the right side of her head. Just about here.’ Gilchrist tapped his temple. An image of Kelly in bed, rolling away from Ewart to face the wall where they found the blood spatter, forced its way to the front of his mind. ‘You waited until she turned her back to you.’
Ewart’s eyes seemed to glaze over, as if recalling the memory of that fatal blow.
‘You never even had the courage to look her in the eyes.’ Gilchrist leaned closer, hoped Ewart could feel his hatred. But the man appeared to have switched off. ‘I checked the weather records. It rained heavily that week. You dressed Kelly up in a jacket so you could lug her, like a drunk, out of the flat and into your car.’
Nothing.
‘When Hamish McLeod died, the opportunity presented itself. You had to act w
hen the grave was fresh. You killed her that night. Or maybe the following night.’ He counted thirty seconds before saying, ‘Which one of you buried her body?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I must say, I never would have thought you were Kelly’s type.’
Ewart tried one more defiant look. ‘And your brother was?’
‘Thought you didn’t know her.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘But you knew Jack was going out with her.’
Ewart seemed confused by Gilchrist’s simple statement. Saying he agreed would only confirm his lie. He dug himself deeper with, ‘That’s what I heard.’
‘Who from?’
‘One of the idiots who questioned me.’
‘We’ll replay the recording, check it out, see who said what.’
Ewart stared at some point on the wall.
‘You scratched Jack’s initials on the cigarette lighter.’
Ewart blinked once, twice, at the memory.
‘Then dropped it in beside Kelly. If her body was ever found, then there was the evidence pointing to Jack, his own personalized lighter that must have slipped from his pocket as he was burying the body.’
Ewart lowered his head, tightened his lips.
‘Talk to me, Dougie. Tell me what happened.’
But Ewart seemed to have decided it was safer to say nothing.
As Gilchrist was preparing to leave the office, Stan caught up with him.
‘Would you like an update on Fairclough, boss?’
Trying to convince Greaves of his own innocence in Kelly’s murder investigation had caused Gilchrist’s mind to switch off all thoughts of Fairclough. His career had effectively been put on hold, pending DNA results from the postcards’ stamps. As he struggled to interpret Stan’s expression, he felt a need to swallow a lump in his throat.
‘We’ve got him.’
Gilchrist frowned, his thoughts entangled.
‘He’s got a record,’ Stan went on. ‘And the fingerprints we lifted from the broken bottles are a match.’